


Until Death Do Us Part

by toesalignedarch



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, :'), Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Happy Ending, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Kinda?, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, They're just so in love, but not super graphic bc im a weenie, honestly gets pretty sappy at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesalignedarch/pseuds/toesalignedarch
Summary: 5 times through history Joe and Nicky killed each other, and 1 time they brought each other back to life.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 26
Kudos: 268





	Until Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again! I cannot get our favorite immortal husbands out of my head!! 
> 
> had the idea to explore Nicky and Joe's relationship throughout history when I first saw this [The Old Guard Through History](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khCUVWqW9BU&) video from netflix, which provided lots of specific details/dates that the movie didn't cover :)
> 
> and now to credit some stuff:
> 
>   * part 2 inspired by [this post](https://lenalost.tumblr.com/post/623909711355494401/those-first-few-weeks-before-they-had-learnt) on Nicolò and Yusuf not speaking a common language when they first meet (includes beautiful artwork!!)
>   * part +1 inspired by [this post](https://reddiegays.tumblr.com/post/624178811094859776/just-joe-and-nicky-showering-together-after-a) on Nicky and Joe taking care of each other after missions 
> 


**1.**

Sieges, Nicolò finds, are 95% anticipation, 4% planning, and 1% actual fighting. Approximately.

Beside him, his commander is yelling rapidly, telling his soldiers to "move this over there" and "put that here." Despite the officer's gruff presence, it's all a facade; Nicolò knows this because just yesterday the commander told him to "move this over _here_ " and "put that _there_." They're all antsy, waiting for either a surrender or a signal to attack, and it's been weeks since he first arrived along with all the equipment to build two massive siege towers.

He overhears some newer recruits discussing the strategy in hushed tones when he makes it back to his tent.

"—build a new church," one is saying. They all pause and look up when he enters, but upon recognizing his face they ignore him and continue talking.

"God is behind us; those barbarians don't stand a chance," another spits.

Lying on his cot, swatting absently at the never-ending supply of flies and gnats buzzing around him, Nicolò sighs and, despite having left the comforts of priesthood behind, prays.

Two days (and plenty of useless rearranging) later, they finally get a signal.

"No surrender," a fellow soldier whispers eagerly to him when he steps out of the tent. "Today, we fight."

Even the threat of death isn't enough to squash the energetic air throughout the camp; finally, _finally_ , there was something to do. The army packs up their camp—they won't need it later; either they'll be sleeping in the Muslim stronghold they've been besieging when this is all over, or they'll all be dead and won't have any use for a camp anyway.

One of his commander's commanders is yelling instructions and what must be his version of a motivational speech—"for His glory" is said quite a lot—but Nicolò isn't really paying attention. His mind is wandering, wondering if after today he'll ever be able to witness another sunrise.

The march to the edge of the woods that surround the stronghold is a blur; he remembers only putting on his boots and the next thing he knows, he's staring at turreted towers at the border that defines Jerusalem.

It's a massacre—they've barely even stepped out of the woods when men are collapsing left and right, grasping at arrows protruding from their necks and stomachs. There's a call somewhere along the line to raise their shields and they do; thousands of glinting metal sheets emblazoned with Christian crosses are lifted skyward. The arrows that follow sound like rain and hail against their makeshift umbrellas, and Nicolò's arm trembles with the force of the onslaught.

When there's a break in the volley of arrows, they charge forward. Out of the stronghold, an equally loud army rushes out, curved blades glinting in the sun before the dust clouds block the light.

It's all a blur; Nicolò stabs and ducks and slashes and rolls and—

Somehow, amid all the chaos and screams, he makes eye contact with one of his enemies.

A man around his age, head wrapped in some sort of scarf, curly brown hair exploding from beneath the cap and around his chin. The man snarls and Nicolò responds with a yell of his own before sprinting straight at him.

He's good, Nicolò admits to himself; he's barely able to breathe in all this chainmail, not to mention the heat and the dust, but the other man's attacks are ferocious and unrelenting.

There's an opening for a split second and Nicolò jumps forward—slams his sword as deep as he can go into the other man's chest—he's victorious, he's won, and he's bringing glory to God, and—

 _Oh, fuck_ , is his last thought as he feels the tip of a curved sword slice through his heart.

**2.**

Yusuf learns early on that Nicolò is more than happy to resort to indirect tactics when it comes to fighting. The Genoan is talented with his traps, his backroad ambushes, his long-range attacks.

He's starting to notice the little things about his immortal companion, like how Nicolò likes to eat his meals straight from the fire rather than letting it cool, and how Nicolò mouths silent words to himself when he's deep in thought—not that he can understand the unspoken words; the man speaks some sort of dialect he's never heard of before.

Despite their initial encounter—in which they found themselves revitalized in a bloody, corpse-filled field and proceeded to take out their surprise and shock at each other—they've become friends. Uneasy, tentative friends, but friends nonetheless.

He wonders what Nicolò's learned about him so far, wonder if the other man feels as drawn to him as he does.

Nicolò, for his part, is far more patient than he. He's teaching Yusuf how to set up some complicated contraption, and so far it's going moderately well, except for that neither have fully learned each other's language. They've resorted to a lot of drawing in the sand, miming, and—mostly on Yusuf's side—longwinded rants in their native tongues when the other doesn't understand.

Nicolò says something and Yusuf's brings his attention back to the man.

"What?" he asks.

The other man sighs and points at the knotted rope in his hands, which Yusuf has been fiddling with for the past few minutes. Nicolò shakes his head and mimes tying a knot, all the while staring intently at Yusuf.

"You want me to tie the knot?"

Nicolò blinks and frowns, trying to translate. After a brief pause, he shakes his head slowly. He says something else, and Yusuf recognizes the phrase "do not."

"Do not tie the knot," Yusuf guesses hesitantly in the other man's language.

He receives a surprised smile and a nod for his efforts.

"Okay, then." Yusuf holds up the rope in his hands. "Should I untie the knots I made?"

Nicolò purses his lips, contemplating. "No knot," he says, and despite the Genoan's faulty pronunciation, Yusuf understands him. Well, at least his words.

Yusuf sighs and runs a weary hand over his face. "No knot, or untie the knot?" he demands, the intonations of the Genoan's language foreign on his tongue.

"That is...same?" Nicolò responds, looking confused.

With a groan, Yusuf grabs the knotted rope with both hands. "Do you want me to _not tie_ a knot," he says loudly, miming a knot. "Or do you want me to _untie_ a knot?" He goes to untie one of his earlier knots, tugging on the rope to get some slack.

Nicolò's eyes grow wide and he rises to his feet, babbling in frantic tones, eyes focused on something behind Yusuf.

"What the—"

Yusuf feels a deafening slam at the back of his head, hears the crack of his skull, and falls forward, motionless.

**3**.

"Are we in position?"

"Yes, boss."

To his right, Andromache nods firmly, mouth pressed into a thin line.

To his left, Yusuf gives him a dry smile. "All in a day's work, yeah?"

"Shut up, you two," hisses Quynh. She glares at them with such passion that they immediately stop talking. Nico hears Andromache let out a quiet huff of laughter.

They're perched on different tree branches, counting on the dense vegetation to hide their presence from the religious fanatics in the town square below. A row of women in chains are being led to the gallows, where a corded noose awaits each of them. The youngest in chains is probably no older than thirteen, judging by her stature and rounded cheeks, streaked with grime and tears.

"Okay," Andromache murmurs. "Watch out for the guards. We go in, we go out, that's it."

Yusuf eyes the guards—armed with simple wooden clubs studded with nails—and snorts. "No need to _watch out_ for them, boss. What are they going to do, spank me?"

Andromache's response is a stare that could kill any mortal man a hundred times over. Even so, Nico stifles his chuckles into his sleeve, smiling at Yusuf when he looks over. He gets a wink for his troubles.

On Andromache's signal, they drop from the trees and emerge into the center of town. The crowd shrieks with terror as the Scythian wields her newly commissioned battle ax, splitting the rusty metal chains that imprison the accused women.

"Go, run," Nico hears Andromache tell them, and the women waste no time sprinting to the woods, the remaining chains chafing against their dry, cracked skin.

The guards are preoccupied with Quynh, whose speed and agility are unmatched; she uses her bow to knock them down, then grabs their clubs and tosses them aside.

Yusuf is on the opposite side of the gallows, slashing the support posts to bring the structure to the ground, when Nico hears the scream. He looks up and spots the source immediately: the girl, whose cheeks are now glistening with fresh tears, is scrambling backwards madly as a guard, armed with a club, advances slowly, menacingly.

Her eyes, bright green, fly about wildly until they land on Nico. "Help!" she screams, her voice nearly hoarse.

Nico's sprinting as quickly as he can, spurring his legs to move faster, his heart to pump harder, and he's almost within arms reach of the guard when he notices Yusuf also sprinting toward him, from the other side.

Nico reaches the girl first; he spins so that his body flies between the girl and the guard, extending one leg as he flips in midair so that his boot will catch the guard in the wrist. With the speed at which he's turning, Nico figures he'll at least make him drop the club, if not break his forearm.

Except at that exact moment, Yusuf slams into the guard from behind.

Making a split second adjustment, Nico shoves the girl out of the way. He, the stunned guard, and Yusuf go tumbling to the ground, and just as he hears Andromache's voice scream, " _you_ _idiots!_ " he feels something sharp—no; multiple excruciating somethings—pierce through the skin on the back of his neck.

**4.**

It was supposed to be an easy mission. It was supposed to be quick, in-and-out, no longer than seventeen minutes, no more than two people.

That's always how they start, and never how they end.

Nicky's heart pounds against his ribcage. His arms are on fire from the thousands of minuscule cuts, and the not-so-miniscule ones—well, those happen to be oozing blood, sliding down the length of his sword and slicking the floor by his feet. There's an unnerving sensation in his body that tells him he's healing already, but he doesn't need a mirror to know that he looks _awful_ ; judging by the crunch from an earlier fist to the face, surely his nose is broken and he's got at least one black eye blossoming.

Even still, he feels like Joe's got it worse.

In fact, he _knows_ Joe's got it worse, because Joe's the one with a knife pressing into his throat, a thin crimson line darkening as the seconds tick by.

"Come now, drop the weapon," drawls the man who's holding Joe down as the rest of his gang jeer loudly from the sides. "Drop it, and I'll let you choose who dies: the kids, or your _boyfriend._ "

He knows he can take the men in the room, but he _won't_ —not if there's a chance that Joe or the children get hurt. Desperate, Nicky looks to the only one he can trust.

Joe's eyes are harrowing, burning with fury and pain and desperation—not for himself, but for the gaggle of school children locked in the back room, being held hostage by a gun that's nearly as big as they are.

"Drop it," the man orders again, shaking Joe for emphasis. The cut on his throat widens and Joe stifles a haggard cough.

Nicky ignores the man, though, and focuses all of his attention on Joe. They stare into each other's eyes, holding a hundred silent conversations and a thousand unspoken arguments. Finally, Nicky understands what he has to do. He swallows thickly, bracing himself for what he's about to do, and prays that the man does it quickly.

In a flash, Nicky pulls a gun and shoots the man in the corner, the most immediate threat to the children, and the man goes down.

"No noise," Nicky yells to the kids—he knows they can hear him even through the closed door—and they're too terrified not to listen.

At the same time, he hears a hallow thud as another body hits the ground, and based on the sinking feeling in his stomach he knows it's—

"So you chose the kids over your boyfriend, huh?" The man wipes his blade on the edge of his shirt, smearing Joe's blood onto the linen. Slotting the knife loosely into his boot, he advances menacingly, his soldiers circling in. "Mm. A shame you don't actually have a choice. They're all gonna die, and so are you."

Nicky keeps his eyes trained on the leader. "You don't know who you're dealing with," he says calmly.

"Oh, really," the man sneers, his expression wicked and untamed. "What I see in front of me is your dead _boyfriend_ "—he hurls his words like daggers, like he wants to see Nicky flinch—"and someone who's about to join him in hell. You're telling me I'm wrong?"

"Yeah," Nicky tells him honestly. "I am."

"Ha!" The man spits. "Fuck you—"

There's suddenly a knife in the man's throat—the same one that had taken Joe's life—and that's Nicky's cue. He attacks with both hands, sword in his right, gun in his left, and whirls around the room. In the back of his mind, he hopes the children have closed their eyes and covered their ears.

Slashing and firing with precision, it's an intricate dance they've been rehearsing for hundreds of years. From time to time, Nicky finds himself back to back with Joe, a brief moment to check in before the fight separates them again. The mortals don't stand a chance; it isn't long before the sounds of battle have faded and the last moans of agony have been silenced.

"Good work," Joe says, clapping a bloody hand on his shoulder.

Nicky grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a searing kiss. "Sorry," he murmurs when they break apart.

"Don't be."

They glance around at the carnage, then at the door.

"I feel like we should—"

"—not lead the kids through this shit?" Joe chuckles. "Yeah. I think so too."

**5**.

Finding a new immortal after all these years takes a long time to get used to. Sometimes, Nicky will open his mouth to say something to Booker, only to realize with a jolt that Booker isn't here anymore. When he's counting to make sure everyone's accounted for, sometimes he refers to Nile as the exiled Frenchman.

Another big change is Andy: now that she's lost her immortality, she's beginning to age. Very slowly, almost unnoticeable, but her features are softening, her hair streaking lighter with every passing year. Nicky knows better than to mention it, but he and Joe always exchange concerned glances whenever Andy disappears after a mission and returns with a receipt from a local pharmacy. He's started carrying bandages and gauze in his pocket, just in case.

But it isn't all bad; in fact, everything is much better now that Nile is here. Hundreds of years of old habits are hard to change, but adding a modern woman to the mix always helps.

Nile introduces them to ways of living that they'd been too preoccupied to notice—after all, ancient mercenaries living in the 21st Century don't often find themselves going to arcades. (Though, after setting the high score for all the shooting-style games in every arcade they go to, Andy suggested maybe they should fail on purpose, so as to not draw too much attention.)

Despite being the newest member of the Old Guard, it doesn't take long for Nile to find her place in the group. No, she doesn't fill in the void left by Booker; rather, she carves her own niche and thrives. After so many years of the same group and same dynamics, her presence is a blessing.

"Hey, watch it!"

Nicky freezes and winces, thoughts coming back to the present. "Sorry," he whispers, darting back into the shadows where the rest of his team are waiting.

They're hiding in what's essentially a maze: rows upon rows of shelves organized in the most disorganized, seemingly random fashion. Then again, perhaps that's the point, seeing as the shelves are filled with millions of confidential and top-secret folders.

If he strains, Nicky can hear distant footsteps of armed guards patrolling the walkways. They came in knowing it would probably be a blood bath, and he has a feeling they won't be let down.

The fight breaks out almost instantaneously; one second he's purposefully stepping out of the shadows and the next he's diving into another dimly lit aisle, stray bullets piercing through the metal shelves beside him.

During a lull in the shooting, Andy's voice crackles through his earpiece. "Everyone still with me?"

"Yes, boss," Nicky breathes into the microphone.

"Target is four aisles down from the emergency exit, middle shelf, near the top. Anyone close to that?"

Nicky looks around. "I am," he reports when he spots the glowing sign. "I'm going for it."

"Nicky—"

He hears someone curse into his ear but he doesn't have the time to figure out who—he rolls out of his hiding spot and breaks into a sprint, dodging bullets left and right. Up ahead, he spots a familiar figure crouched in an alcove and without thinking he dives into it.

"I'm supposed to be the impulsive one," Joe hisses, smacking him lightly across the top of his head. " _I'm_ closer!"

"And now we're both close," Nicky tells him with a dry smile. They peer around the corner and are rewarded with a shower of metal.

"You fuckers," comes Andy's exasperated sigh over the coms at the same time Nile groans, " _God_ , you idiots!"

"Thank you for your concern, boss," Joe mutters.

"Can one of you get there?"

They share a glance. "I can," Nicky says, and before Joe can protest he's throwing himself out of the alcove, shouting, "Cover me!"

He has a feeling that they only make it to their target because it's him and Joe—always him and Joe—working together, shielding each other, protecting the other from attackers that lurk in the dark. Nicky ducks into the aisle first, Joe following right behind him, gun locked, loaded, and aimed at anyone who might think to stop by.

"Boss, I'm here. I see the file—"

Nicky reaches for the box just as Joe barrels past him, body contorted as he flies through the air. He hadn't even heard Joe move, not until the man pushes Nicky into the shelf.

"What—"

And then he understands: Joe spasms and collapses to the ground with three rapidly growing crimson marks in his chest; at the other end of the walkway another body—one he doesn't recognize—drops. There are shouts that draw nearer with every second, but he can't focus on that, not when the love of his life is staining the linoleum floors with red.

"Man down," Nicky cries, hoping Andy or Nile are close enough to assist. He crouches by Joe's body, hands pressing at his chest and shaking. An armed guard appears at the end of the aisle and Nicky doesn't even look up when he pulls the trigger. "Joe? _Joe?_ "

His partner jolts and his eyes fly open. "Fuck," he gasps, grabbing at Nicky's wrists. When his breathing evens out, Joe manages a quirk of his lips. "Told you I'm the impulsive one."

"When I said to cover me, _that's not what I meant_!"

"But Nile did it for Andy"—Joe coughs and spits out blood—"way back at Merrick and it worked!"

"Nile, incoming!"

Through his earpiece, Nicky hears Nile and Andy fly into action. The footsteps start receding, probably heading over to where the other two immortals are, and Nicky breathes a quick sigh of relief. Turning back to Joe, he frowns disapprovingly. "Nile did it for Andy because Andy's no longer immortal," Nicky reminds him. "In case you've forgotten, I _am_ immortal."

Joe raises a bloody hand and cups Nicky's jaw. "So am I, my love. So am I."

**+1**.

It takes all of his energy to drag Nicky and himself through the door. Having to pretend like they're a normal couple, simply out for a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood, is _exhausting_ —especially when every inch of their bodies are covered with partially healed bruises and cuts. With fumbling fingers Joe slides the heavy metal key into the lock and pushes the door open

"Hello?" he calls, voice raspy, throat parched. No one answers, except for a gentle flutter of the curtains.

"Mustn't be back yet," Nicky murmurs. As soon as the door slams closed behind them, he falls to his knees. "God, _fuck_."

They stumble into the kitchen and collapse onto the wicker chairs waiting for them. Finally, they can rest. Joe closes his eyes and leans his head back, feeling the blood rush to his temples. Across from him, Nicky is taking slow, deep breaths, with prolonged exhales. They've both been immortal so long, their bodies are already almost finished regenerating, but that doesn't mean it gets any easier.

" _Shit_!" Joe gasps and sits up as a misplaced rib snaps back into place. "Damnit."

Nicky extends an arm and grabs Joe's hand, squeezing it as the bones mend. They both know how painful it can be.

It's another few minutes before Joe breathes evenly again, and this time it's Nicky's turn to hold onto his hand like his life depends on it. (Most of the time, it does.)

Once the worst is over, Nicky slumps forward onto the table. His arm is covered with flakes of dried blood—Joe isn't sure if it's his or someone else's—and looks bizarrely out of place next to the delicate basket of picture perfect fruit that's been set along with a vase of wildflowers. He can't help it; a snort of amusement turns into full-on laughter the longer he stares at the juxtaposition.

"What," Nicky demands when Joe doesn't stop. " _What_?"

"Nothing, nothing," Joe manages. He wipes a few tears from his eyes and smiles wetly at his partner. His heart feels energized, his soul lighter just by looking at Nicky's _arm_ —it's ridiculous. "Just glad to be alive, that's all."

"You barely look the part." With a sigh and a groan, Nicky heaves himself out of the chair. "Come on, let's get cleaned up."

Joe makes a note to thank Andy for thinking ahead—the rented apartment actually has a bathtub. He moans as he and Nicky slide into warm soapy water, the gentle ripples washing away their aches and remnants of the fight, staining the water pink. They take turns rubbing a bar of ivory soap over each other, careful to avoid the fading bruises and the last of any previously broken bones. Next, it's shampoo—Nicky takes his time like he always does, running his fingers through every strand of Joe's curly hair and beard.

If it weren't for the residual twinges of pain, Joe could very well be in paradise—sitting between his lover's legs, back flush against Nicky's chest, being lulled to sleep by spindly fingers combing his hair.

He wakes when Nicky pats his thigh and kisses his temple. "All done," he murmurs into Joe's ear.

They kiss and switch, this time with Nicky settling between Joe's legs. He starts scratching at Nicky's scalp, drawing infinitely many intricate circles with his nails, just the way Nicky likes it. The Genoan sighs with pleasure and melts back against him, and Joe could be in paradise all over again.

By the time they drain the tub, the water smells like metal. They watch in silence as the water swirls and disappears, leaving only a faint red outline on the side of the tub.

"Later?" Joe asks, eyeing the stain. He _really_ doesn't want to deal with it right now.

"Later," Nicky confirms with a lazy smile.

This is their routine, and it hasn't really changed for hundreds of years. It's always the same few steps: breathe, bathe, eat, rest, sleep. Depending on how they feel, they might make love before the last step, but Joe already knows it's not happening tonight. Not at this pace.

He knows Nicky can't stomach much after a particularly bloody mission, so Joe makes him a bowl of chicken soup—barely salted to maximize the chances it'll stay in his body. For himself, he boils water for rice and pours the broth on top. A glass of Chianti for Nicky and sparkling water for himself— _et voila_ , that's a meal fit for a dinner date.

"You look much better," Joe tells his lover, and it's true—the sparkle has returned in Nicky's pale eyes and his cheeks are flushed.

"This dinner," Nicky says, gesturing at the frugal spread before them. "Brought me back to life. It's just what I needed."

The _clink_ of their glasses resonate in the stillness.

Out of all their traditions, "rest" might be Joe's favorite. They've done all the things they _need_ to do—clean off the grime, refuel their bodies—and now they can do the things they _want_ to do. Namely, lie in bed with their bodies as close as possible. It's Joe's favorite part, because he doesn't have to focus on any other task; it's just him, the love of his life, and absolutely no more responsibilities—at least for today.

Nicky is tracing the veins on Joe's arms with his fingertips, following the lines up to his shoulder before going back down to his wrists. It's the tender moments like these when Joe feels like he can't breathe; even after a thousand years this man in his arms can render him speechless and powerless, and yet Nicky gives him the strength to do anything and everything. Instinctively, Joe wraps his arms tighter around him.

The caresses along his forearm pause. "Are you okay?" Nicky asks into the silence.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how much I love you." It's not exactly a lie.

He can hear Nicky's smile as he says, "Joe, it's been over a thousand years. Surely you've figured that out by now?"

"I've got an approximation," he replies. He turns so that his nose is right next to the little tuft of unruly hair that sticks out from the back of Nicky's head. "My body may be limited by physical constraints and my mind ever so finite, but my love for you stretches beyond the farthest reaches of infinity."

There's a moment of silence, then Nicky is kissing him, hard. It doesn't last long, though, because Nicky is laughing—bold, vivacious, uncensored laughs that shake Joe to the core. "You're insufferable," Nicky manages between heaving breaths.

"Maybe," Joe says. He's too preoccupied trying to commit this moment to memory to elaborate.

When he gains control again, Nicky sighs comfortably and melts against Joe's chest. "What else were you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

Nicky clicks his tongue. "Don't lie to me. I know you too well."

"Yeah, you do," Joe admits into Nicky's neck, his breath warm and feather-light across his skin. After a long pause, he says, "Nicolò, the world is changing so quickly... the things we thought we knew aren't going to be true tomorrow..."

"Mm." Nicky tilts his head to look Joe in the eye, radiating concern and empathy. "Are you afraid?"

Joe presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "No," he says softly, truthfully, letting his head rest on the pillow and his eyes drift closed. "I'm never afraid, as long as I have you."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! 
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are much appreciated :)
> 
> _ps come say hi on[tumblr](https://toesalignedarch.tumblr.com/)!_


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